


Purple Kisses

by Akiko_Natsuko



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Promises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: “One day you will kiss a man you can't breathe without." ― Karen Marie Moning, BloodfeverYata and Fushimi's relationship across fifty kisses.
Relationships: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	1. Small kisses littered across the other’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/Zc5Z7atveh).

Saruhiko grumbled under his breath as he stirred, already able to tell that it was too early for him to be awake. He had never been a morning person, although he had got used to them while working with Scepter 4, and he had perfected the art of knowing when he was supposed to be up, and right now it was too early. It didn’t take him long to work out why though, even without opening his eyes, he could feel the gaze that was watching his every move and fighting the smile he could feel tugging at his lips he clicked his tongue.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching you…” He almost snorted at the obviousness of that reply, but there was something in the quiet voice that stopped him, and he slowly opened his eyes and looked across at where Misaki was laid propped up on one elbow, watching him intently. It wasn’t just his voice was off, there was an emotion that he couldn’t quite put a name too in the vanguard’s expression, one that he had seen more and more the last few days, but had waited, trusting that Misaki would talk to him. After all, the former red wasn’t known for his patience, especially when it came to him, and yet here they were, staring at one another and he was still no closer to understanding what was going on in his partner’s mind.

“Why?” That got a reaction, just not the one that he had been expecting as Misaki coloured slightly, but didn’t look away or scoff, or give him some half-formed excuse. Instead, he seemed almost thoughtful – which was a worrying realisation, because age had not brought wisdom and Misaki was as wild and reckless as ever – and Saruhiko frowned before shuffling closer. “Misaki? What is going on?” Patience be damned, he was growing worried now.

“I don’t know…” Misaki admitted after a long moment, and Saruhiko narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t lying. Even before they had reconciled, he had known when the vanguard was lying to him, but he wasn’t telling him the entire truth either, but the confusion in his partner’s eyes wasn’t feigned. Nor was the slight tremor as he reached out to run fingers across Saru’s cheek, looking at him as though he was seeing him for the first time, and Saruhiko’s breath caught at the tenderness in that expression. “I think…”

“You think?” Saruhiko prompted when Misaki trailed off, catching the hand as it went to fall away, and lifting it to his lips and kissing it lightly. “Talk to me,” he added, using the words that Misaki had used against him so often, the promise they had made in the early days of their reconciliation when they were still finding their way towards something new.

“I wake up with you every day,” Misaki murmured, smiling to show that it wasn’t a complaint. “I fall asleep with you each night. This…” He lifted the hand that wasn’t caught in Saru’s to gesture at the room around them, the flat that they had found and bought together once they were confident enough in their future. “Is more my home than HOMRA these days.” There was a hint of loss then, but not of grief. The realisation of a bird that had left its nest, a child finding their own place in the world. A step that at times, Saruhiko had wondered if the vanguard would ever be able to take, and his breath caught, squeezing the hand he was holding as he encouraged him to continue. “And sometimes it scares me,” he admitted so quietly that Saruhiko had to lean in to catch the words.

“Why?”

“Because we could have lost this before we ever had it,” Misaki whispered, and Saruhiko grimaced. That was an old fear, one that had kept him awake many times in the early stages of this new relationship, as though he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for one of them to say the wrong thing, to do something that would shatter the fragile peace and send them straight back to the twisted, broken thing they’d had before. Time and Misaki had gradually eased that fear, but there were still some nights that he awoke wondering if it had all been a dream, only to be soothed by the warmth of Misaki curled beside him.

“But we didn’t,” he said finally, squeezing Misaki’s hand and kissing it again before moving closer. Misaki was the one who had chased his doubts away, stubborn and warm, refusing to let him retreat again, and now it was his turn to return the favour. “We’re right here,” he added, trapping their linked hands between them as he pressed close. “Together,” he kissed Misaki on the lips, lingering and warm, waiting until his partner melted into it before moving on. “In the home that we made together.” He kissed the tip of Misaki’s nose, smirking as the vanguard wrinkled it in response, before littering pink cheeks with delicate kisses. Each one a promise, a declaration that this was real, that it wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he.


	2. A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss.

This was not supposed to be happening.

Misaki wasn’t supposed to be there, rushing headlong into the fallout from an operation that Fushimi had spent months on. He certainly wasn’t meant to be charging in, wreathed in flames, and scowling because of him. He didn’t have a chance to say that though, because he was slowly, painfully being pressed back into the wall. A blade pressed much too close to his throat for comfort. He clenched his fist. They knew about his abilities, it had been how he’d got them to trust him and let him in this close as part of his investigation, which also meant that they were prepared for it to be used against them. _Shit,_ he knew that he could use it, that he might even be able to take down the men holding him in place, but not before that blade struck home.

Getting free wasn’t much of an option either, because even if he did manage to break away without having his throat cut, he wasn’t going to get far. His right leg burning fiercely from the shot that had taken him down before he’d even managed to process the fact that they had discovered that he hadn’t left Scepter 4 as they believed. He was upright at the moment, but then they were holding most of his weight, as soon as that support disappeared he had a feeling he would be getting up close and personal with the ground. “STOP!” One of his captors roared in his ear, and he flinched, starting at the loud sound and feeling the blade cut into his skin as he pressed into it. Hissing, it took him a moment to realise the shout hadn’t been for him, but for Misaki, and fear cut through the sharp focus that he had been clinging to as he sought out the HOMRA vanguard who wasn’t even supposed to be there.

_Misaki…_

The vanguard had already taken down half a dozen men, his flames snaking out and threatening the boxes of product stacked against the wall. He wasn’t unscathed though, a nasty cut above his left eye dripping blood down the side of his face, and there was something about the way he was moving. Ducking awkwardly beneath a blow, and retaliating by swinging his staff into the man’s face and then groin, that told Fushimi that there was probably more damage. More telling was the fact that Misaki wasn’t grinning like he usually would during a fight, instead he was scowling, expression drawn in a concentration that Fushimi rarely saw from him, and that was before the shout that brought Misaki’s gaze towards him.

_Don’t surrender,_ Fushimi thought desperately before almost scoffing at himself. Surrender wasn’t in the vanguard’s vocabulary. He was reckless and headstrong and had no concept of losing, even when he was on the ropes. Besides which, they were threatening the wrong thing. If it had been a member of HOMRA, then Misaki might at least hesitate, but why would he falter or risk himself for a traitorous Blue that he spent as much time cursing as he did fighting?

Yet Misaki wasn’t moving, standing frozen in place, the scowl and focus giving way to uncertainty and as their eyes met, Fushimi was taken aback by the fear he could see. _What are you doing, Misaki?_ He wasn’t going to attack, that much was clear, Misaki’s knuckle’s turning white from where he was clutching the staff so tightly, his flames that had been so bright before, now flickering and fading.

Surrendering.

“Drop your weapon and step away from it!” His captor ordered, thankfully not quite as loudly this time, gesturing for some of the other men to move into place, ready to take Misaki as soon as he was unarmed. _Not a chance,_ Fushimi thought with a growl, not giving himself time to wonder why the idea of Misaki surrendering was far more terrifying than the thought of what they could do to him, and he tensed, hoping that he wasn’t about to get himself killed when Yata called out.

“Fine, just…don’t hurt him!” And there was a clattering sound as the staff dropped to the floor, and the flames surrounding the vanguard petered out as he held up his hands to show that he was unarmed as he stepped to the side, away from the weapon.

“Misaki what are you doing?” Fushimi demanded, grimacing as the blade dug into the cut he’d caused earlier, but refusing to take the words back, glaring at his captor before looking at Misaki. _You’re not supposed to give up! Especially not for my sake,_ he thought, trying to convince himself that it was anger and not fear that he was feeling as the men moved in, surrounding Misaki.

“Saving you,” Yata replied, and Fushimi frowned. There was no fear in those words, no sense of defeat. Apparently, his captor had realised that something was off too because he shouted a warning, and Fushimi heard Yata grunt just as he saw the glint of red in the vanguard’s eyes. Flames swirling at his feet as he lunged to the side, taking the men holding him with him, as he lashed out, the flaming foot catching his staff and igniting it as it flew through the air directly towards Fushimi and his captors.

The blade disappeared from his throat, an instinctive move to try and avoid the flaming staff and Fushimi moved, praying that his leg would hold out. Blue flaring around him as he drove his elbow into the stomach of the man on his left, driving the breath out of him, before twisting around and plunging one of his own knives into the shoulder of the right. Then he threw up his hand, the lingering hint of red that he carried forming around his hand as he caught the blazing staff, hissing as it wasn’t quite enough to protect him before he lashed out at the one who had threatened Yata. A swift blow saw the knife now decorated with his blood hitting the ground and skittering under a box, while another flurry saw the man down and rolling around as he fought to smother the flames licking at his clothes. Abandoning the staff, his hands reddened and saw, he lashed out with a foot, taking the man out of the fight before rushing forwards.

Misaki’s move had given him the chance to escape, but it hadn’t helped the vanguard who had already been surrounded, and even though flames were wrapped around his hands and feet again, the numbers were telling, and Fushimi heard him cry out in pain just as he reached them. “Misaki!” He shouted as he bowled into them, using his momentum to force a path through to the vanguard, surging into the space that he had created, before falling into place at Misaki’s back. “You’re an idiot,” he ground out as he took down one of their attackers with a knife to the leg, ducking more on instinct than anything, as a flaming fist shot past his ear and took down another who had been trying to get the drop on him.

“An idiot who just saved your ass,” Yata retorted, but it lacked the vitriol of their usual exchanges, and Fushimi risked a glance at him as he ducked another blow, sweeping their feet out from under them. The vanguard was bloodied, and he didn’t know how much of it belonged to him and he grimaced, biting back the urge to say something else that would only irritate Yata. Instead, he moved, using himself as a shield as much as possible, trusting Misaki to cover his back, as together they took down the rest of the group. As swiftly as though they had always fought together.

The last man had just crashed to the ground, in a ruined pallet when Fushimi heard movement behind him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Before he could react though, a warm body hurtled into him, pushing him out of the way, just as the blade that had been at his neck not long ago flew through where his head had been a moment before. Snarling a curse, he flung the last of his knives in retaliation, a sharp cry telling him that each one had met their mark, but he didn’t stop to check, twisting to check on Yata, knowing that he was the only one who would have done something so reckless. “What the hell was…?” He trailed off, taking in the hunched-up figure of the vanguard, swearing that his heart skipped a beat as Misaki seemed to curl in on himself. “Misaki?” He called urgently, trying not to panic as he fumbled for his second PDA that they hadn’t had a chance to discover before Yata had interrupted them, sending the SOS signal he had agreed with his King as he scrambled across to Yata’s side.

Yata’s breathing was ragged and pained, and he tensed and flinched when Fushimi reached for him. “It’s just me,” Fushimi told him, barely recognising his own voice. It seemed to be enough for the vanguard though, because he unfurled a little, tilting his head to look up at him, giving Fushimi a good look at the gash over his eye, and the numerous cuts and bruises now littering the rest of his face.

“Are you all right?” Yata wheezed, eyes darting to his throat, reminding Fushimi of his own injuries as he reached up with a hand to check his neck. His fingertips came away bloody, but not enough to worry him too much. His leg now that he allowed himself to think about it, having pushed it to the back of his mind during the fight was burning fiercely, and he grimaced. That was going to keep him out of action for a little while, but it was better than being dead, and realising that he hadn’t answered he looked back at Yata, seeing the same fear as earlier.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, rather than his usual ‘I’m fine’, somehow unable to bring himself to lie. “Now, be quiet and let me look at you,” he ordered, already moving to help Yata sit up and lean back against the wall. Ignoring the quiet protest just as he always had, hands gentle as he straightened him out. “Where does it hurt?” He asked.

“You told me to be quiet…”

“Misaki…” Fushimi growled, before catching himself. Now wasn’t the time to fight. “Can you tell me where it hurts? Please.” He added, a little offended at how surprised Misaki looked at that.

“Everywhere?” Yata offered with what was supposed to be a grin but was much closer to a grimace. “My side,” he added, a bit more seriously as Fushimi scowled at him, tilting his head to his left side where the white of his jumper was covered with speckled red. Relieved to have actually got a sensible answer, although he had a feeling that there was more truth in that first one than he wanted to think about, Fushimi carefully eased up the ruined top to get a look at the damage. Hissing as he took the bruising that was already spreading across the vanguard’s skin. There were a couple of gashes that were responsible for the blood, and he remembered the grunt from earlier, having a feeling that these were the cause. They were still bleeding, but not too heavily, and they didn’t seem too deep. Shooting Misaki a look that was half warning, and half-apology, he pressed lightly around them. The sharp hiss, and the way the vanguard’s breath hitched and caught told him the ribs were at least cracked if not broken, but it could have been worse, and he heaved a sigh of relief.

“You’re lucky,” he muttered, earning a rough laugh that was followed by a curse as Yata realised that was a terrible idea at the moment, and he looked up at the vanguard’s face, meeting his gaze. There was no regret or apology Yata’s expression. He knew that it could have been worse, but he was unrepentant, and Fushimi wanted to hate him for that. For being willing to go so far for someone he regularly called an enemy or a traitor, but he couldn’t muster more than a flicker of irritation right then. “Why?” He asked instead. _Why go so far, and for someone like me?_

“I’m the only one allowed to kick your ass,” Yata muttered, looking away. Lying. Fushimi realised, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the vanguard, gaze trailing over the damage he had taken, to the relief that had chased the fear from the vanguard’s expression. _No, not lying…_ Yata had never been good at lying, especially to him, and this seemed like a strange thing to lie about, unless…

_Oh._

The one thing they were both excellent at lying about. A lie they clung to most of the time because it was less painful than taking a peek at what lay beneath. A lie that had fallen apart back at the high school when he had heard Misaki crying out in pain as the HOMRA tattoo had burned him, and again, just moments ago when Yata had thought that he was about to be killed. _We’re both terrible at lying,_ he thought, amused and irritated, and something else, something sofer as he hesitated for a moment before leaning in.

“Yes, you are,” he whispered, seeing Yata’s eyes widen just before he kissed him. It was soft and fleeting, barely a press of the lips, the lie heavy and wavering between them as he pulled back to meet the vanguard’s eyes, searching for and finding the permission he’d barely dared to hope for before leaning in again. And this time Yata met him halfway, hesitant, but as hungry for this as Fushimi was, and there was nothing chaste about this kiss, as they both chased an answer they weren’t quite ready for.


	3. Morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter.

Warmth. Safety.

Neither were feelings that Fushimi was used to waking up to. Growing up, the house had never felt warm even with the heating blasting, as though something vital was missing. At the time he hadn’t understood or rather hadn’t been ready to admit because if he did he wasn’t sure what he was going to do, because that house – not a home, never a home – was all he had. So he had lied to himself, to the world, to the Misaki. Called it home, and pretended that he belonged there, that he was wanted, even as the chill had seeped inside and wrapped around his bones. It had never been safe, each moment spent on edge, and he had learned to live with that, to believe that was what the world was like, even when he looked around at other people and saw them relaxed and warm, a world apart from him.

He’d had warmth briefly. The time he had lived with Misaki, and it had nothing to do with the red that flowed through their bodies. HOMRA was warm too, but it was a heat that burned, that scorched from the inside out, and the outside in, and it scared him as much as the chill of his childhood house had. No, this warmth was softer, blossoming through the long hours of school and time in the arcade, that had become a spark and then a blaze after the night he had thought he was going to lose Misaki to his scheming with JUNGLE. Now it burned, warm and content between them. He loved those moments when it was just the two of them, Misaki’s eyes on him with the same focus and wonder as when they’d first met, laughter and easy conversation between them, and the promise of something more.

The warmth had burnt out.

He wasn’t sure whether it was HOMRA’s fire that had consumed it, or if the chill that lingered in his bones had slowly leeched it away. Perhaps, it was both, although it was easier to blame HOMRA, to blame Misaki for loving that scorching fire more than that warmth. Another lie. A shield against the chill in his heart, as he pulled away and Misaki didn’t chase him.

There was safety in the barracks, and warmth of a kind he supposed. For all that, he had been a Red and had turned traitor, Scepter 4 had welcomed him for what he was, and given him a home. He refused to call it that though, Refused to acknowledge the warmth or the safety, blades always as close a thought, because he felt if he looked at it too closely or let in, then it would be lost too. Stolen away by the chill inside him. And even in his moments of weakness, fleeting seconds when he would reach out, a child longing for a place to belong it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the easy warmth of Misaki, the heat that had started to loosen the chill around his bones, and he hated it and hated Misaki for showing something he couldn’t have.

Mikoto died. 

JUNGLE rose.

That was a different kind of warmth. He didn’t feel safe, his secrets and lies a weight on his chest, a knife at his throat, but he could see the warmth between them. Like a child pressed up against a window, shivering in the cold as he watched a family gather around the fire. It was a siren song, a temptation. He didn’t listen to it. He remembered Misaki’s warmth, simple yet all-encompassing. He thought about the warmth of Scepter 4, flickering in the wake of his ‘betrayal’ but waiting, ready to take him back if he didn’t fail…and if they all survived. Still, it cut deep to turn against them, to crush that warmth, sacrificing it for one that he wasn’t even sure he would ever be able to fully let through his walls.

The Misaki came.

Burning bright, even as the end of the Slates loomed close. But it wasn’t the scorching heat of that red that reached for him, but rather the warmth of their time together, friendship and love, battered and bruised after all the harsh words, fights and betrayals, but still warm. Still gentle, wrapping around him, a balm against the chill around his bones. Everything had been crashing down around them, and yet for a moment at least Fushimi had felt safe and warm in a way that he hadn’t for years, longing loosening his tongue. A promise made and shared. To talk, to try and get back to how they’d been.

To let that warmth in again.

Now Fushimi was warm and safe, Misaki pressed against his front, curled close. He always slept like that, as though afraid that Fushimi would slip away or the chill would seep back in if he moved away. It was warm. It was safe. It was home. He could claim that word now, feel it down to his bones which were never cold these days, soothed by Misaki’s warmth, by the warmth of Scepter 4, and he curled close. Chasing the warmth, even though he knew that it wasn’t going anywhere, pressing a kiss to bed-mussed hair, and smiling as Misaki stirred at the touch, mumbling and grumbling under his breath. Twisting against him, still pressed close, warm and pliant, half-asleep still even as he tilted his head up.

His first kiss missed, pressed to the space above Fushimi’s scar, a burst of warmth against the skin. The next was on Fushimi’s chin, clumsy and blind, eyes still closed. Fushimi kiss caught Misaki’s forehead, lingering a moment. A benediction. A thank you. Another burst of warmth between them. Their noses bumped, Fushimi snorting and Misaki smiling against his skin, a spark of warmth, that became an ember and then a flame as their lips met. It was a homecoming, a culmination of getting to this point, and a promise of endless mornings to come, full of warmth and safety.

A declaration of love.

A conversation.

A promise.

Fushimi broke first, eyes opening to drink in the sight of his half-awake partner, the colour in his cheeks, the warmth in the sleepy smile that greeted him, as Misaki stretched and stirred, eyes slowly open. The warmth lingering, soft and wondering as Fushimi leaned in to kiss him again, slow and lingering, drinking in the feeling of him, of belonging.

_Home._


	4. Kissing tears from the other’s face.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Fushimi had always felt somewhat out of place at HOMRA, even before everything had come to a head and he’d walked away. Still, he’d never felt it as keenly as he did right now stood in front of the bar and staring at the sign declaring that it was closed ‘until further notice’. There was a wrongness in the air, and not just because he was stood there, in front of a place he no longer had a right to be, wearing the uniform that proclaimed that for the whole world to see. No, it was the fact that the pub was closed, able to count on hand the number of times Kusanagi had allowed that to happen, as even in the midst of a crisis he’d usually managed to keep the bar open. Although, he supposed losing their King went a bit beyond ‘crisis’; still it unsettled him to see the sign, to see the dirt and dust building up on the glass, the lack of life spilling out of the doors.

Where was HOMRA?

It wasn’t as though he wanted to run into them, or at least most of them, but they should have been here. Had they truly fallen apart without Mikoto? It was hard to imagine, especially as he remembered the times he’d sat in the bar and looked around and realised that the clan was more than just their King, that there were bonds and friendships – that he had no part in – all around him. Could that have really died with Mikoto? He shifted from one foot to the other, unsettled by the fact that he – the traitor – was the only one stood here, remembering what they’d had, what they had been.

_Misaki, what the hell has happened here?_

Thoughts of the vanguard bought him back to the present, reminding him why he was here rather than at the office or at home. _Misaki._ It was always him, always had been. He hadn’t seen the vanguard since Mikoto’s death, and at first, he had paid it little mind, because HOMRA was mourning and Misaki was going to be with them, and Fushimi had been buried other the work generated by the events on the island, and the paperwork… _the piles and piles of paperwork._ However, as days had given away to a week, and then another, it had started to niggle at him, especially when a couple of roundabout questions to his own clan, had made him realise that apart from a couple of brief sightings the vanguard hadn’t been seen by anyone. Concerned, although he would deny it to anyone to ask – and deliberately ignoring the knowing look in Munakata’s eyes, and the disapproval in Awashima’s expression – he had started patrolling, and if his path happened to take him to the places that Misaki usually frequented then that was just coincidence.

Nothing.

It was as though Misaki had dropped off the face of the world, and with each failure to track him down, the concern deepened and morphed into something darker and stronger. Something that had kept him up all the previous night and had resulted in him hacking in and finding him by tracing his PDA – the same one Fushimi had given him – and that had led him here. To an empty, closed up pub, and memories he really didn’t want to get lost in. Clicking his tongues, he rechecked his PDA, but the signal was still there, defiantly telling him that Misaki was somewhere inside. Just as he had been all night, and morning while Fushimi had been forced to attend an incident on the other side of town, and that steady, blinking dot was making him uneasy.

Shoving the PDA away, and ignoring the feeling of not belonging, Fushimi finally moved up to the door and pushed on the handle. It didn’t open, but it was cleaner than the rest of the door, as though it was still in use. _So, probably still here,_ he thought, before lifting his hand and knocking sharply on the door. He waited, tapping the door impatiently and leaning forward to peer through the glass, squinting through the dirt and unable to make out any sign of life. Gritting his teeth, he knocked again louder this time, waiting with even less patience as the seconds trickled into minutes. “MISAKI!” He shouted when he knocked again, deliberately drawing out the name in the hopes of getting a rise and forcing the vanguard to respond. He didn’t particularly want a fight after the days of worrying, but he would take it, but there was still no sign of life, and the fear that had been lurking beneath the concern lately surged to the front. “Misaki!” He tried one last time, already knowing that there wasn’t going to be a response, counting off a minute in his head, before he ducked down to examine the lock.

It would have been easy enough to blast through the door or break the glass, but something – not sentimentality – stopped him. Grumbling under his breath, he rummaged through his pockets for the tools that he always kept close at hand, but rarely used these days. A throwback to his time with HOMRA and the times he had tried to make their entrances a little easier, and quieter. _A real walk down memory lane,_ he thought as he worked, idly wondering if Munakata even knew about these skills of his, before deciding that he didn’t want to know, just as the lock clicked beneath his efforts. He would have to suggest Kusanagi get better locks at some point. It had never been a problem before when there was usually at least half a dozen people with flames at their fingertips nearby, all more than happy to scrap with anyone who thought of invading their territory.

There was no one there to stop him today though, as he pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked before slipping inside and closing it behind him. Silence greeted him, heavy with a thousand memories and unspoken words, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting to where he and Misaki had used to sit by the bar, or to the booth that Mikoto had favoured. _I shouldn’t be here._ He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to recall the feelings of being one step out of sync with everyone else, the fear of the flames as he’d taken Mikoto’s hand, watching as Misaki moved away from him.

He stepped forward.

“Misaki?” He called, softer than he’d intended. Still nothing, and he clicked his tongue, several choice things to say to the vanguard when he found him flitting through his mind as he began to look around.

It didn’t take him long to spy the footprints in the dust that had settled, another perturbing reminder of how things changed, because Kusanagi had been obsessive about keeping the bar sparkling and clean at all times. Shaking off that thought, he followed the trail across the room, reaching out to brush his fingers against the bar in passing before he could stop himself. The footsteps led through to the back corridor, but not towards the stairs that led upstairs as he’d half-expected, but rather to the door that had led down to the basement. Something thick and uneasy settled in the pit of his stomach, especially as he spied a smear of something that looked far too much like blood on the wall beside the door.

He slipped a hand into his jacket and withdrew a knife, before creeping forward, alert for a trap. The basement door was ajar, and there was more blood on the handle – dry – he checked before nudging it open, and peering inside, cursing that he couldn’t see the room from the top of the stairs. He wanted to call out to Misaki, the urge warring with the cautious part of his mind that told him not to alert anyone to his presence, and he held it back as he began to inch down the stairs. He should have told Munakata, or someone where he was going, was his next thought, but a soft noise from somewhere below caught his attention before he could contemplate doing something about that, and his fingers tightened on his knife as he froze and listened. Seconds crept by, his heart a little too loud in his ears, before he heard the sound again, breath catching as he realised it sounded halfway between a sob and a groan of pain.

“Misaki?” It slipped out before he could stop it, already moving down the stairs, before he was finally rewarded with a quiet, incredulous voice asking.

“…S-Saru…?”

Reaching the base of the steps, he took in the scene in front of him a heartbeat. Clearly, Misaki had been there a while, going on the empty bottles and food cartons – at least he had been eating – and the rumpled, blankets on the old couch in the corner, which Fushimi could remember as being uncomfortable as hell. Next, his gaze darted to the projection on the wall, scowling at the sight of one Totsuka’s videos playing, images of a happier time written across walls reeling with hurt, and currently paused on a rare picture of all of them…including a scowling Fushimi, and he swallowed uncomfortably, before tearing his gaze away and focusing on the reason he was here.

Misaki looked like hell.

There was no kinder way of putting it, even if he had been that way inclined, and his heart lurched at the sight of the vanguard although he hid it by tucking away his knife. There would be no fighting today. Misaki was huddled in a half-singed armchair that had once matched the couch before a barfight had got a little out of hand, Fushimi remembered Kusanagi’s fury and the lecture they’d all received after that night and dismissed it. Instead, focusing on Misaki. The vanguard – if he could even be called that anymore – seemed to be making himself as small as possible, which was wrong on so many levels that Fushimi wanted to push and pull until Misaki was loud and shining bright again. He didn’t, because Misaki looked like hell, bleached of all colour as though he hadn’t seen the light of day in a while – which maybe he hadn’t considering the state of the room – which only made the shadows under his eyes stand out more vividly. Eyes that were too bright, too red. But not as red as the blood around his nose and chin, staining the front of his top, and the hands that had curled protectively across his front as he stared at Fushimi as though he had seen a ghost. “S-Saru…”

Fushimi didn’t reply, wrongness surging in his chest, because Misaki wasn’t supposed to sound like that. Lost. Hurting. Defeated. Instead, he closed the distance between them in hurried steps and reached for Misaki’s chin as soon as he reached him, eyes sliding over the damage. A split lip. A bruise spreading up his jaw and to his left eye – not just a shadow from lack of sleep there. Blood around his nose, although it thankfully didn’t look broken. He’d seen Misaki with more severe injuries before, although he wasn’t dismissing the possibility of other injuries just yet, and yet these ones seemed worse than any others. Maybe it was because Misaki looked…fragile, a word he would never have associated with the other man until now. Or, because he hadn’t pulled away and tried to bluster and say he was fine, instead of staring at Fushimi as though he wasn’t sure if this was a dream or not. “What happened?” He asked finally, far more softly than he’d intended, although grateful for it when Misaki flinched all the same.

“…nothing.”

“Liar,” Fushimi retorted, tapping a finger on the split lip and earning a wince. “Yata, talk to me.” He wasn’t sure whether it was his tone, a throwback to before everything had gone to hell and he had told himself that he didn’t care what happened to Misaki, or the use of his preferred name, but Misaki blinked and tried to look anywhere but at him as he mumbled.

“…I forgot…”

“Forgot?”

“…I got into a fight okay?” Misaki spat a hint of his old self bleeding for a moment. “I leapt in and got my ass kicked because I don’t…because there’s… there’s…” He was gesturing with bloody hands, and Fushimi closed his eyes as he realised what he was saying.

_There’s no Mikoto anymore…No red…no fire…_

_No HOMRA…_

The empty bar above them, with its damning sign in the window, took on more meaning now, and with it came anger. Where were the rest of HOMRA? Why was Misaki, stubborn, too-loyal Misaki, still here? Fushimi didn’t let that out though, instead opening his eyes as he moved to crouch in front of Misaki, propelled by something he didn’t understand and wasn’t ready to put a name too. His hand moving from the bloody chin to Misaki’s chin as he met and held the vanguard’s gaze. “Why are you here, Saru?” Misaki was the one to break the silence, voice soft again, the fragility back in force.

“I was looking for you.”

“If you want a fight, you’re out of luck…” Bitter, defeated and so unlike Misaki that it set his teeth on edge, but Misaki wasn’t looking at him anymore, eyes drifting over the basement and then to the projector and the images it sprayed on the wall. “I’ve got nothing left… no red, no clan…”

“Me.” Fushimi interrupted, the word welling up in his chest and bursting out of him. He’d always thought there would be triumph at hearing Misaki realise that HOMRA wasn’t everything, but the grief in those words, the hurt, had been too much for him to bear, especially because deep down he had always known that it had been about belonging and family. His anger with HOMRA was still there, burning white-hot at the moment as he realised that somehow Misaki was the only one here, the only one holding on, and he would be having words with them about that. But later, when Misaki wasn’t trembling under his fingertips, and staring at him with wide eyes. “You still have me, and you always will.” It was true. Even when they had been ‘enemies’, he had been there, unable and unwilling to walk away.

Always in Misaki’s orbit.

He waited for the angry words, the denial and rejection. Waited for the Misaki who had called him a ‘traitor’ and who fought him at every opportunity to appear. Instead, Misaki’s mouth opened and closed half a dozen times, before he swallowed convulsively. “…I have you?” Soft. Afraid… Hoping. Fushimi didn’t entirely trust his voice right then, this was so far from what he had been expecting when he’d tracked the vanguard down, and instead, he nodded, but he met the searching gaze without flinching. _Always,_ he thought. And maybe Misaki saw the unspoken word, or perhaps the nod was enough, because he reached up and brushed trembling fingers over the hand resting against his cheek, seeming to jolt a little at finding it warm and solid, and very real. “Saru…” A shudder rolled through Misaki as he whispered his name, his voice cracking and breaking on a sob at the end, and the sight of tears beginning to roll down pale cheeks startled Fushimi.

_Misaki…_

He leant up, not knowing what he was doing, but needing to do something. And he didn’t think that Misaki was the only one trembling as he kissed him. It was nothing like he’d imagined on the rare times that he’d let himself dream about what could be, now was not the time, and instead, it was chaste and all too brief. A promise, in and of itself. A reassurance. _I’m here for you, just for you._ It whispered of Misaki and Saruhiko, of the two of them, beyond their past, beyond clans and powers, and loss and fighting, and Misaki responded, kissing him back. Just as soft and fleeting, and Fushimi could taste the salt of his tears then. The hope and doubt warring for control, and breaking the kiss he leaned further, kissing away the tears on one cheek and then the other, fingers moving to swipe away the ones that slipped through, unsurprised when more took their place. _They left him,_ anger burned beneath the quiet, as he repeated his ministrations over and over.

_I’m here…_

_…I’m yours…_

_Always._


End file.
